Return of a Wandering Child
by Solaced Whimsy
Summary: What if Miss Daae-de Chagny happened to return to the Opera House after a few years? What would she find? (Crappy and cliche summary, I know...) Rated for later chapters.
1. Persephone's Return

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. Especially not Phantom of the Opera. But if I did...boy would that be something...

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"Christine I love you…."

The words echoed through her mind, although the time and place in which they had been said seemed like a faraway memory now.

Three long year had passed since the incident; years that had seemed to be full of joy and happiness. But deep down, a sinking feeling pushed at the bottom of her heart. So much so that it threatened to break her poor heart entirely. Three years, and still the whole affair remained on her mind. Three years with the love of her life.

Of course, if this were true, why did she feel so horribly guilty?

It was as if the 'ghost' still haunted her. And in all truth, he did. His memory was still crystal clear in her mind. She could still see the tears in his eyes; still hear the suffering in his voice in those last minutes spent with him. She had been so happy with Raoul those days…why now, when she was free to be with him, free of the phantom, did she feel so horrid?

The heels of her small boots clicked softly on the cobblestones as she made her way down the road, towards her destination. To be a bit more discreet, she had had the carriage leave her in front of the home of a friend, and it was a good thing, too, for if Raoul woke to find her missing…she shook this thought from her mind. What mattered now was the situation at hand.

She was now nearing the old building, the workers having gone home for the night hours ago. It was close to midnight, and the moon shone clearly on the streets of Paris. Work was being done to restore the Opera Populaire, but thus far, nothing significant had been accomplished.

The young woman sighed, wrapping her cloak a bit more tightly around herself. It was an even chillier night as the winter winds blew against her. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the doors. Looking up, her eyes traveled over the statues that looked as though they guarded the old place. And then to the roof, where she could just see parts of the stone angels. The roof, where the secret engagement had first been formed. It nearly brought tears to her eyes. And yet, something prevented them from coming.

After one final moment of gazing at the roof, she began to slowly make her way up the steps. What would she find here? Here, in the darkness, dust, and cobwebs of the old Opera Populaire? Her thoughts flew back to the phantom. What had become of him? Was he alive, even now? Or had the rather cliché angry horde found and killed him as she suspected. She shuddered at the thought of a body being her findings.

With but a light press, the doors creaked open, and the young lady flinched at the sound. Peering around, she spied a spare lantern. Once she had it lit, she smiled softly. At least now she had some light. Walking in a small circle, she shed some light on her surroundings.

She was in the front room, that once held a magnificent staircase and golden statues. Now all that lay before her were dull figures of angels, and a charred and dusty set of stairs.

Placing a hand gently on the banister, she suddenly pulled back, feeling as though she had just touched a blanket. And in all reality, she had. A blanket of three years worth of dust. Of course, her hand hadn't come back without her palms being a dirty souvenir of this touch. She made a face at this; in her flurry of thoughts, she hadn't thought about /this/. She sighed, and slowly made her way up /these/ stairs now, very quietly humming. As she climbed, the very quiet humming turned into very quiet singing; singing of the song that refused to leave her mind.

"In sleep he sang to me…" She began, the words naturally coming from her mouth, clear in her memory.

"In dreams he came…" It was frequent that she found herself humming or singing this song, and she struggled to hide it from Raoul. She suspected it was purposeful, but the song had a comforting effect on her.

"That voice which calls to me,

And speaks my name." She sighed, the song bringing rather unwanted tears to her eyes.

"And do I dream again…

For now I find…"

She couldn't finish the verse.

Tears choked her voice for some reason, and she stopped at the top of the stairs, turning her head and placing a hand to her mouth to try and gulp down the lump in her throat. Holding her lantern up, she went and pushed open the doors to the old theatre and stage. Walking down the main aisle, she went towards the dressing rooms. Every now and then, she would give a small sneeze or a cough, the musty air and dust getting to her lungs. As she neared the door to her old dressing room; the room of the mirror wherein she had first seen the false angel, her heart quickened, and when she did reach the door, she was hesitant to open it, her breath catching as she pushed on the door.

And what a sight met her eyes as it opened.

Letters and papers littered the floor. Old and dried flowers rested in old and dried vases. The two or three chairs in the room had been upturned, and a few vases and jars lay broken on the floor. The two mirrors, the small vanity mirror, and the large mirror she had traveled through, were shattered.

The young woman looked horrified. What had happened here? She wrapped her arms around herself, shutting her eyes for a moment. Why had she come back? It seemed like she hadn't any idea. But she did. Deep down, she knew. It was to try and face her memories.

Why else would Christine Daae come back to the Opera Populaire?


	2. Hades' Acknowledgement

Disclaimer: I /still/ own nothing. Don't try and say I do.

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Christine….Christine…

That haunting name that floated through his head. As he sat at the regal but dusty old organ, his fingers seemed to pound on the keys, but he could hear no sound. Only the sound of /her/ voice. Only /her/ name. All else seemed to fade away, leaving the poor creature an empty shell, alone in his darkness.

Christine….Christine…

He couldn't escape her, no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did. But /she/ had escaped him. Running off with that silly little viscomte of hers…at the very thought of him, the great genius sneered angrily. But then the sneer turned to a look of great sadness. A sadness he had kept hidden deep within him for three years, taking his immense rage out only in his music, now. It used to be that he could not control the vehemence surging through his veins. Smashing mirrors, banging down upon the keys of his organ, pounding upon walls and tables, throwing things about….but he had learned to control that, to direct it elsewhere. Music, song, mechanisms, you might say.

Christine….Christine…

His fixation with her was one of mixed emotions. Hatred, for what she had done to him. Scorned him, betrayed him…and yet an intense love, even still. But oh, what he would do if ever he were to see her again….he could not even fathom what he could possibly do. He loved her dearly, and yet he felt he needed to make her pay for what she had done. She had shattered his heart; she had destroyed him and his life. She had led him along and then scorned him, leaving him alone and empty. All for the love of that /child, that /boy/ who she had known when she herself was a child. He claimed to love her, hearing her beautiful voice. _The voice that /I/ gave her….the voice that /I/ trained…. _Spitefully was this thought. He himself had offered her all he could tender…all that he had to give her….his heart, his soul, his music. The Music of the Night, as he had so lovingly called it.

Christine….Christine…

She had broken his heart and his spirit. No longer could he find inspiration. No longer could he find motivation to play anything, to compose anything. Here in this cavern beneath the Opera Populaire, each day he could hear the workers come to build, to renovate the place. Each day he could hear them leave, and then he was alone again in this dark place. Each day, each and every day…he had lost count of the days that had gone by on which Christine had not returned. Something inside of him had died with the hope that she would return…that she would ever come back to him. And that fact had left him completely devoid of feeling; the flame that had once been his soul had seemed to have gone out. And on this day, it was no different. He was still the ghost, still the same disfigured man, and Christine was still not here with him. He was still here, alone, and nothing could seem to change that.

Until he heard the screeching of a door upon marble.

It was a distant sound from where he was, but he could still hear it. His eyes narrowed; the workers should have all gone home by now/and/ locked the doors. Swiftly, he went to his boat, leaping into it, and began to row towards the staircase leading to the mirror-door. How dare someone invade his solitude! Quickly climbing the stairs, he hardly noticed what he was doing. All he knew was that as he neared the mirror, he could hear footsteps. Someone was in /her/ room. He growled at this; no one should go in there. Not even any of the workers had been in that room.

It wasn't that that room was /sacred/ or any such nonsense…It was just that it was Christine's room. The room in which he had first revealed himself to her, where he had first taken her hand, where he had sung to her that fateful night. It was also the dark room where he had taken out his rage. Chairs had been strewn about, letters as well, papers ripped, things broken…And then he had left it that way, squalid and untidy, to wait out the long years until someone would come find the mess and tidy it up as they would when they got to renovating that part of the theatre.

Nearing the mirror, suddenly he could see a soft light emanating from inside the room. Someone was definitely in there, and he wanted to know right then and there why, and who it was. The workers should have all gone home, the managers, who had stayed on, would not return from England until the renovations were complete, and the front doors should have been locked. That was when he heard singing. Someone was in /her/ room/singing/.

"In sleep he sang to me…."

His heart skipped a beat.

Now he knew who it was….no one else knew that song. She had returned…after those long years of absence, she had returned to him. His eyes narrowed however. /Why/ had she come back/Why/ was she singing /that/ song? The two of them were the only ones who knew it. And yet the singing continued.

"In dreams he came…" But something was wrong with the voice. It was choked somehow. Held back. A single emotion showed through clearly in the words. Sadness.

He paused, listening as the song progressed. The voice got softer and softer, heavy with what sounded like tears. But it never finished the verse.

And that was when he did something he had not done in three years…since the day she had left him. He began to sing.

"Sing once again with me…

Our strange duet…" He began. He heard silence in return. Standing back from the mirror, he could see his vision of loveliness standing there in the room, a lantern in her hand. She was trembling, frozen and wide eyed. He continued.

"My power over you,

grows stronger yet…" She looked about, and then to the mirror. She was staring straight at him, eyes as big as saucers, looking rather awe-struck.

"And though you turn from me…

To glance behind…." The young woman was completely still, watching the mirror. It had been cracked, but no shards of glass had fallen from it. That was when he chose to show himself. Moving up to the mirror, he slipped through the door to stand before her.

"The Phantom of the opera is there

Inside your mind."

The Phantom of the Opera had returned.

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Author's Note: to anyone reading this, I should have stated in the previous chapter. This fic is more based on the musical/film production. So...just to let you know, there /will/ be more singing... 


	3. Eating of the Pommegranite

Yet another Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing at all.

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Christine was frozen. He…he was here….he was still alive and standing before her, singing to her in that voice she knew so well. But it was intoxicating…she had to hear more of it, and she knew how to.

"Those who have seen your face

Draw back in fear….

I am the mask you wear…" and he did reply, and she moved towards him, his voice seeming to beckon her.

"It's me they hear…" and as she moved towards him, they sang in unison, as they had those years before.

"Your spirit and my voice…" she sang with him.

"In one combined….

The Phantom of the opera is there…

Inside my mind…" she was nearing him, her eyes misted over, her movements not seeming to be her own. It was a queer feeling that had come over her, but it was not unfamiliar. She knew what this was; it was simply the effect his voice had upon her. He, however, kept singing, holding his arms out to her.

He had a plan. He was going to make her pay….he was going to destroy her life as she had done his. First, however, he needed her to come to him.

"In all your wildest dreams,

You never knew…"she sang to him in return, and at the sound of her voice, his heart seemed to melt.

"That man and mystery

Were both in you…" she was nearly within reach, moving ever closer to him, and together again they sang,

"And in this labyrinth,

Where night is blind…

The Phantom of the opera is there…

Inside your mind…" She was in his arms now, and he enfolded her in them.

"Good evening, Delilah." Was all he said to her, looking down at her mockingly.

She averted her eyes as he spoke, looking at the ground. He had every right to hate her…but the look in his eyes…it was cold and unfeeling as he spoke. And Delilah? She remembered the story from the Bible of the strongman and Delilah, his plotting wife. In the story, and referring to her as Delilah, the woman had betrayed the man whom she had supposedly loved. Did that mean he had thought she loved him? Tears came to her eyes in that instant, and seeing them broke the phantom's heart.

"You have every right to hate me…" She whispered suddenly. His eyes widened, then the hard look in them softened as they returned to normal. He took her chin, lifting her head and wiping away her tears.

"Yes, you're right. I do." He looked at her almost scoldingly. "But as I recall…" He continued, "You have a right to hate me as well." Her eyes widened slightly, looking up at him. Tears still came to them, however, even after he had wiped a few away. She spoke again, but he cut her off.

"Angel…"

"Christine, why did you come here?"

She fell silent. Why exactly /had/ she come here? Was it simply to face her memories? Or was there a deeper meaning to her journey here? One look into his eyes had given her the answer.

She loved him.

Of course, she always had. Somehow, she always had loved him, even through her love for Raoul. Even in those last moments with him. Even before she had known his identity, she had loved him. He had been her angel…her teacher, her comforter. That was not something she could take lightly or overlook. Here in his arms, she felt comforted…strangely right. But that couldn't be right! She was married to the man she loved…or, really, was she? She had known Raoul when she was a child…but her angel's words interrupted her thoughts.

"Christine, why are you here?" she looked a bit startled.

"I…I…" She paused. "I came to face my memories." Was this true? Yes…it was…basically. She had come to face him, in general. She had come back to see him. He looked confused. Why had she come back to face her memories? What did she mean by this? In this statement, was there any hope she was giving him to fuel that desire for her to love him? No…no, there couldn't be…

"What do you mean by that?" He asked suddenly, making vocal his thoughts. She looked rather confused herself, and as if to conceal this, she looked at the floor.

"I….I wanted to see…to see you…." His heart soared at her words. She had come to see him?

"Why, Christine?"

"I…I wanted to see….if you….if you were still alive…"

"If you hate me so, then why would you care if I were alive or not?" She looked taken aback, then looked away.

"I never hated you. Never…" She whispered, biting her lip as she said the words she had not expected herself to say at all.

He was shocked. She…she /didn't/ hate him? How…why….if she didn't hate him, then why had she left him that night?

"What do you mean, Christine? I thought you hated me…" He replied, his eyes growing cold yet again. That was when she did the truly unexpected. Throwing her arms around his neck, she cried,

"I…I love you, angel!" And with that, she burst into tears, crying into his shoulder.

"Christine….wait…." He pulled her back, and her hands flew to her face, to hide her tears from him. His plan was just dissolving as he watched her shake with sobs.

She had done it. She had admitted it to him, and thus, admitted it to herself, making this emotion real. How could she! She, who was married to the viscomte de Chagny….to Raoul…to the man she had claimed to love…How could she do this? And yet, how could she not? She loved him, she had for quite some time now. But, being the good wife that she was, had never uttered a word of this to anyone. Only to her mind had she bestowed the secret. And even then, it was not something she thought about often. Or, better, she /tried/ not to think of it. His words, yet again, interrupted her thoughts.

"Christine…" He repeated softly. "How….how can you say that you love me…if that night…you left me…you ran away with Monsieur de Chagny…." She shook her head, taking her hands away to reveal a tear-streaked face, her eyes and tip of her nose pink from crying.

"I…I don't understand it….I…I've always loved you….I just…I thought I loved him….and….I…I don't know anything anymore…all I know is…is that, that I love you…." She returned her gaze to the ground.

But he would not allow her eyes to stay there. Taking her back into his arms, he tilted her head up to face him.

"Christine…why are you telling me this? You, who are probably married right now. You were happy….why now, do you choose to tell me all of this? For three years, you left me alone. A broken man. And empty shell of what I had been. And now, after all of this time, you choose to come back and tell me all of this? Why Christine? Tell me, why?" But she could not. She fell silent, the only sounds she made the sounds of small sniffles, or of quiet sobs as she stood, pressed up against him.

* * *

They stood like that for some time, the Phantom and Christine, her wrapped in his strong arms. And secretly, oh so secretly, both held the fact in their hearts that this felt right. It was a queer notion to the two, to either of them, and it caused them, after a moment, to turn their heads to look at one another. Finding themselves staring into each other's eyes, they quickly turned away; Christine blushing, and the great phantom looking rather embarrassed himself. But after a second, he turned back. Turning her head to face him, he looked down at the pinkened cheeks, the bright eyes, the small slightly parted lips, and he smiled. She looked completely lost, but he was smiling all the while.

"Christine, don't cry…" He wiped away her tears yet again. And then he sang to her the very lines he had sung those three years ago in those last moments when she had given him the ring.

"Christine, I love you…." Her eyes widened. Those were the exact words that had been in her head for those years and had comforted her when she was sad or alone. It was because she knew he loved her. And it was because she knew in her heart that she loved him as well. The saddest part of it was that she would never be able to tell him this. Until now.

She took his hand as he caressed her cheek, smiling up at him gently.

"And I love you, angel." She replied in the quietest of voices, almost hoping he hadn't heard this. But his attuned hearing had picked up every word. He embraced her tightly, nearly lifting her off of the ground.

"Oh Christine…Christine…." He murmured, over and over again into her ear. "You haven't any idea as to how long I have waited to hear those words….nor how I have prayed to hear them…." She smiled, gently running a hand over his cheek revealed by the mask. And then, releasing her from the embrace, he took her hand. "Come…" He said softly. "Come….we shall go to the Kingdom of Music…" Her smile wavered a bit as he released her, but brightened again as he took her hand. And yet something was a bit wrong. Something was left unasked. A few things, actually. And for one-

"What….what happened here, angel?" She asked, motioning around to the littered floor. He sighed, knowing this question would have to be answered. Looking around, his eyes finally met hers.

"This was all my doing." He replied in a quiet voice. Her eyes widened, and he let go of her hand.

"You….you…how…why?" She stuttered, stumbling over her words. He looked away.

"This place….it could do nothing but remind me of you. Nothing at all. And…In my desolation….rage came as well…rage over the fact that you had chosen the viscomte over me….rage over the fact that you had gone…" But she got the idea, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Oh angel….I shall never leave you again…never!" She exclaimed, a few tears returning to her eyes. He smiled a pained smile.

"Oh Christine….oh my Christine…." He wrapped his arms gently around her waist. A moment passed, and finally Christine looked up at him with a small smile.

"I did have one more question, angel…" He raised an eyebrow.

"And that is?"

"Your name….what is it?" She asked, looking at him curiously. He looked mildly surprised.

"My name? Have I never told you?" She shook her head. He sighed quietly, and smiled ruefully. "My name, Christine, is Erik." She smiled, and yet wondered aloud if this pointed to Scandinavian heritage. He shook his head, replying that 'Erik' was simply a name the name he had taken by accident. She smiled as he took her hand again, but something was still wrong. And as the bell tolled midnight, her eyes widened, and only one single word escaped her lips.

"Raoul…."

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Author's Note: Heehee...I do love a good cliffhanger...I hope anyone reading this does too.


	4. When Demeter Made Her Discovery

Yet /another/ disclaimer: I /still/ own nothing. Leave me alone.

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Now, Raoul de Chagny was a rational man. He had his routine, and he stuck to it. Every night at about eleven o'clock, he was accompanied to bed by Christine, and every morning, he woke to her being next to him at about nine o'clock to begin his daily duties. This night had started out just the same as all the others. But sometime in the duration, dreadfully close to midnight, he awoke from a rather odd dream to find Christine missing. Of course, at first, he tried to rationalize the situation, saying to himself that she had simply gone for a drink of water, or had gone to the bathroom. But within moment, he had checked both of those places, and she was in neither. He then went on to check the rest of the house, in his nervousness, and found no Christine. This was not a good thing. Racing out to the stables, he found one of the hands tending to the horses, even this late at night. He was a bit confused about this, and questioned the man on the whereabouts of his wife. The older male scratched his head in bewilderment.

"Why, monsieur le viscomte, she had me carry her to a friend's home just maybe half an hour ago!" He replied. Raoul's eyes widened at this. /This/ late at night, Christine had gone to a friend's house! No…something was wrong…that couldn't be…

"Ready me a carriage…I need to leave as soon as possible." He said quietly. The stable hand nodded, and began to ready the horses, hitching them to a buggy for Raoul, and leading them out. The viscomte was just coming out of the house, dressed and ready, leaping into the carriage. Before the stable hand could say a word, the horses and buggy clattered off with a crack of the reins. And yet in his hurry, Raoul had forgotten something that may be vital.

His sword was still upstairs in their bedroom, sitting in its usual place by the fireplace.

But more importantly was where he was headed. Where could Christine be at this time of night? Certainly not out visiting…and the man had not indicated that it had been any sort of emergency. If she was out to visit her father's grave, she would have given him some sort of notice, and –

Well, actually, there was one place he was /certain/ she was. And that was his destination. Where was this?

The Opera Populaire.

* * *

Erik, as we shall know the phantom by his newly-learned name, looked at Christine oddly.

"What's the matter?" he asked, looking rather puzzled. Christine shook her head.

"I-I've forgotten about Raoul!" She exclaimed in a hush. "he…he…I…" But Erik caught her meaning.

"He doesn't know you are here?" He asked hurriedly. She nodded. He took her hand again, and led her quickly through the mirror, and she followed as quick as him, as though she were running from something to hide. And in all reality, she was. She was running with Erik to hide from Raoul. As they hurried down the steps, Erik questioned her further.

"Christine….why do you seem so eager to get away from him?" He asked, she looked away for a moment.  
"He…he has forbidden me to come here…to sing…to speak at all of you….of anything that happened three years ago." She replied quietly. "He wishes to look to the future…to a family, he says…" At the bottom of the steps, Erik froze, hearing this. One question made its way into his head; one that he was hesitant to voice, and did so waveringly.

"Christine…are you….pregnant?" He asked quietly, his voice shaking from slight nervousness. She blanched at this, looking shocked.

"N-No!" She exclaimed. "No! I-I'm not!" She wasn't, and in all truth, she had not allowed herself to become so. She had never slept with Raoul….something in her had seemed reserved, not allowing her to give in to such physical wants. Erik smiled in relief. So she /wasn't/ pregnant. This was a blessing. Here was Christine, returned to him, completely….wait…was she? He wouldn't truly be able to tell if she was unless…goodness….how could he be thinking of bedding her when they were in such a predicament! He shook this thought from his mind, turning his thoughts back to the current situation.

"Come Christine…let us go home…." He said softly, taking her up into his arms in the bridal fashion, and gently setting her into the boat. She blushed a bit at his touch, but smiled up at him as he made this gesture. He smiled down at her, stepping into the watercraft behind her, and as he rowed, he felt certain that this time, Raoul would not find them.

They reached his house in seemingly no time flat, and he again lifted Christine out of the boat, but this time, he kept her in his arms, beginning to quietly sing to her a familiar song, and yet, it was different somehow…

"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation,

Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination…

Silently the senses abandon their defenses

Helpless to resist the notes I write…

For I compose the music of the night." And as if upon impulse, even while still in his arms, she settled against him, sighing contentedly, and sang,

"Slowly, gently,

Night unfurls its splendour…

Grasp it, sense it,

Tremulous and tender" Hearing this, he set her down, locking his arms around her waist, and joined her in singing,

"Hearing is believing,

Music is deceiving,

Hard as lightning, soft as candlelight…"

"Dare you trust the music of the night?" He sang the question alone, looking down at her almost questioningly. She shut her eyes, leaning against his chest, singing,

"Close your eyes, for your eyes

Will only tell the truth…" And he joined in,

"And the truth isn't what you want to see…

In the dark it is easy to pretend…

That the truth is what it ought to be….

Softly, deftly,

Music shall caress you…." He spun her around in his arms, so that her back was against him, holding her in that same position he had so long ago.

"Hear it,

feel it,

Secretly possess you…

Open up your mind,

Let your fantasies unwind,

In this darkness which you know you cannot fight…

The darkness of the music of the night…" He placed his fingers gently over her eyelids, pressing them down softly.

"Close your eyes,

start a journey through a strange new world,

Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before…

Close your eyes and let music set you free….

Only then can you belong to me…." He caressed her cheek gently, singing the last line alone. They paused, then began together again.

"Floating, falling ,

Sweet intoxication…

Touch me

Trust me

Savor each sensation…

Let the dream begin,

Let your darker side give in

To the power of the music that I write…

The power of the Music of the Night…" She sang alone, a short wordless 'verse' of the song on her own. Then he began alone.

"You alone can make my song take flight…." He turned her around to face him, looking down at her , and placing one hand on her cheek, the other around her waist, he pulled her to him.

"Help me make the Music of the Night…" And with the song having ended, Christine reached up, placing her small hand over his, and taking it to her lips, kissed his palm. He looked a bit surprised at this gesture, but said nothing; only watched as she reached up to caress his mask gently. He tensed slightly, thinking she was going to dislodge it; was going to take it off of him, but she did not. Instead she smiled fondly up at him, and then once again, leaned her head against his chest, wrapping her arms about him, and shutting her eyes. He shut his eyes as well, laying his head on top of hers, inhaling her scent silently, reaching up to stroke her hair.

She could only smile at this, sighing again in a content fashion. She loved him….truly loved him…and she would tell him. Now.

"Erik…" she began, looking up at him. He looked at bit startled at the sound of her voice, but looked at her questioningly.

"Yes Christine?"

"I…..I love you….." His eyes widened then softened, closing halfway as he gazed at her affectionately.

"Oh Christine….my Christine…." He murmured, resting his head atop hers again. They stood like that for what seemed like an eternity, until he straightened up, looking down at her.

"We will need to train your voice again…" she looked up at him curiously. He would be willing to teach her again?  
"And I suppose you shall give me lessons?" She asked teasingly. He smiled.

"Only if you allow me to teach." She nodded. It showed through clearly; he wanted to teach her again. She nodded.

"I will allow you." He embraced her tightly.

"You will be a true diva." He whispered softly. "you will light up the stage once the theatre is returned to its glory…" She looked a bit shocked. She hadn't exactly planned on going back to her singing career…just being with him was enough… but she said nothing, only nodded. He took her hand, leading her to a small portion of the 'house' which had been for her, long ago.  
"Christine…" He began, looking at her uncertainly, wondering if she would accept this. "This….this is to be your quarters….or…rather…it /was/ to be your quarters…" She smiled, sensing his uncertainty,  
"Erik, it's lovely." She replied quietly, smiling up at him gently. But seeing the bed, she yawned. It was close to one o'clock…she needed sleep.

* * *

He was quickly nearing the Opera Populaire, and when he did reach it, he was stunned to find the doors open. So….either someone else were still here, or his suspicions were confirmed and it was in fact Christine. Taking a lantern for himself, he lit it silently, and proceeded through the dark place taking utmost care to make as little noise as possible. She was here, he knew it….just /knew/ it….she had to be. This was the only place she would have come. Growling, he cursed the fact that he had not made sure she had fallen asleep next to him, as he usually did.

He had forbidden her to come here….to speak of anything that had happened three years ago…to sing at all….he didn't need those memories, and neither did she. And yet she insisted upon disobeying him! Why! Why bring this stress to him? He questioned her in his mind, stopping and placing a hand to his forehead and shutting his eyes in frustration. But after a moment, he continued on, towards Christine's dressing room, towards the mirror-door. A thought crossed his mind at that time, a thought that he had feared ever coming into his head. There was always the possibility that she was having an affair. Now, it wasn't as if he really thought Christine capable of doing such a thing…it was just that he was afraid of the concept that she may be cavorting around with some other man.

Of course, there was always the fact that he had never fully pulled her heart away from the Opera Populaire.

Part of her was still there, part of her heart was still in the old burnt building. He had her body, and her mind- but did he even have all of that? Had she truly given herself to him, as he had once thought? For the past dew months, he had heard her humming, even singing softly to herself when she thought he wasn't there. At night, she had been talking in her sleep, tossing and turning. If the fact that she was here meant nothing, then those things must count for something…

He reached the small room quickly, and took quick strides through it. Looking around quickly, he strode through the mirror as he had with Madame Giry, and raced down the steps, knowing full well where she was. He could still remember the step that fell through, and avoided it swiftly, running down the rest after it. He reached the small boat dock, and could see torches on the walls all around. Setting down his lantern and throwing down his coat, he took a deep breath, and took to the water, swimming as he had before. He would save Christine again….inevitably if she were down here, the monster had taken her here. If indeed he were still alive, of course. But if it was anything he'd learned, it was not to underestimate this beast, this phantom. And with this situation on his hands, he wasn't about to start. But as he swam further, he began to hear voices….

* * *

Author's Note: Another cliffhanger! Hah!


End file.
